


Brutus

by PaxVobis



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: (Implied/Referenced) - Freeform, Abuse, Anal Probing, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Bondage, Brutality, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Play, Choking, Clothed Sex, Cock Piercing, Creampie, Dissection, Dissection Table, Erections, Eventual Smut, Face Punching, Filthy, Gags, Gore, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gross, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inappropriate Erections, Knifeplay, Licking, Look Abigail And Toki Are Having A Bad Time And I'm Not Going To Write Around That, Love/Hate, Lube, M/M, Medical Device, Medical Kink, Naked Male Clothed Male, Necrophilia, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Fixation, Orders, Orgasm Denial, Past Magnus/Nathan, Pre-Episode: s04 The Doomstar Requiem, Psychological Torture, Quiet Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Rough Oral Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Skull Fucking, Sort Of, Speculum, Stomach Bulging, Sweat, Table Sex, This One's For Griffin, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Undressing, Vignette, Villains, Violence, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22159945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Standing in front of a camera with the Assassin lurking behind him and waving a knife at their captives as he described all the terrible things they were going to do to them if Dethklok didn’t come wander into their trap, Magnus had been taken aback by his own mind, popping like a blood blister to tell him it was Nathan standing behind him, not this monstrosity.  He had only flinched on camera, but stretched on the dodgy mattress later that night, he lay sleepless with his eyes pried open by the shock.  Thoughts intruded, marched through his head like an invading army: the hate, obviously, the hate that stewed his innards black and hot, which eclipsed the sun, which twisted his hands into hooks.  But beyond that, something else, hard for him to lay a finger on – unreachable, steady, powerful.R18+ ONLY. Explicit gore, violence and sexual content.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Metal Masked Assassin
Comments: 25
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

Something about that dungeon made his head go vile. Maybe it was the smell, rancid blood and mildew, the indescribably rank stench of entrails and bowels ripped out by the Assassin. Maybe it was the dark, the close quarters with shuddering, delusional revengencers spluttering random tics in lieu of conversation. Or it was the screams. The acoustics in this place were just fucked up, you know, they echoed through the whole dripping tunnel system and Magnus couldn’t ignore them even if he turned up the speakers on his pocket radio while he worked.

Or maybe it was just the shit mattress he slept on, dumped directly onto the concrete and growing black mould on its underside that he could smell every time he lay down on it, fully clothed, surrounded by other revengencers like sleeping dogs. His back hadn’t been itself since he was twenty-five and now in his forties a crappy sinking mattress was all it took to turn it to absolute shit. That’s all you needed to turn you mad, right? Constant darkness, constant pain, a radio that only tuned into the Top 40s or Rock Hits. And also the screaming. And the stench of blood and shit. And the – the fear, that white shadow, the smell of decay, those dead eyes watching, unblinking, always just outside his vision. And uh. You know. 

Maybe what was driving him mad was a little more obvious than he’d previously portrayed.

But Magnus didn’t want to think about that. The Assassin – Magnus had received no name – was an ally and a tool and little more. Magnus had been gifted this tool just as he was about to give up hope, just the right amount of brute force and power that he had needed to execute his convoluted web‑spinning with immunity, handed to him to use. Yes, a gift. Like a knife or a gun, and he had gotten them this far – they had gotten this far together, rather – with the revengencers in tow, snowballed from Magnus’ fans and all those embittered by the band. So he was a boon, and Magnus was thankful, but that was all.

Standing in front of a camera with the Assassin lurking behind him and waving a knife at their captives as he described all the terrible things they were going to do to them if Dethklok didn’t come wander into their trap, Magnus had been taken aback by his own mind, popping like a blood blister to tell him it was Nathan standing behind him, not this monstrosity. He had only flinched on camera, but stretched on the dodgy mattress later that night, he lay sleepless with his eyes pried open by the shock. Thoughts intruded, marched through his head like an invading army: the hate, obviously, the hate that stewed his innards black and hot, which eclipsed the sun, which twisted his hands into hooks. But beyond that, something else, hard for him to lay a finger on – unreachable, steady, powerful.

Curled on his side amongst the sleeping revengencers, Magnus saw in his mind’s eye Nathan’s strained muscles, the span of his hands, felt the bite of his black-painted nails on his windpipe and the rumble in his chest, and for the first time in months his dick stiffened against the crotch of his jeans. He closed his eyes in a wince and cursed silently, and squeezed the damn thing roughly with a hand, as if he could choke it into submission. Experienced with sick fantasies by this point, Magnus turned his mind away from hate and solid muscle, and it eventually subsided of its own accord. But it would not be the end of his problems. It never was.

He had been untroubled by sex for almost half a year now. It was something of a novelty; Magnus had always been highly sexed, and chased tails straight into danger again and again well into his adulthood. But since the Revengencer stuff had kicked in, really since his suicide attempt just before encountering them, Magnus had seen his libido dwindle to almost nothing, and then nothing at all. At first drained by the pain in his heart knowing the whole sick ritual lead to a void in the morning, that he was fucking a void and that all he wanted was to hurt. And then even that became boring, and his dick stayed low, and his medication drugged it and dropped it and he barely even noticed the loss. It had been a relief not to care, even surrounded by fawning revengencers that he was sure he could fuck, had he wanted to. 

A stirring was just a stirring. But the next time he descended those stairs into what he had come to affectionately (dissociatively, like he was stepping away) refer to as the _abattoir_ to speak to the Assassin, Magnus felt it again.

This time it was different. Magnus did most of the talking between them and this time was no exception. He’d kind of just needed to vent about how long Dethklok were taking, filling the air just to hear his own voice, never saying the words but with _lonely_ and _hopeless_ underscoring his words. He didn’t expect the Assassin to notice that undercurrent. He clearly didn’t have any time for _feelings_ ; Magnus doubted he even had them and was envious. But he noticed, you know, standing on the bottom step and sort of slouching, hanging his weight off one of the overhead meat hooks like a strap on a bus. He noticed the muscles of the man’s back, where his shirt clung to them with sweat and blood and ambient moisture. He noticed the smell of the Assassin’s perspiration beneath the gore, and the effortless way he handled an entire human body, like it was a gutted fish and not something that weighed as much as Magnus did.

He also noticed the tightness in his stomach as he spoke and was ignored. It wasn’t the usual gut churn from the smell of human innards he had come to know so well, but something else, a little fist clench in his belly and into his loins as he watched the Assassin work. Suddenly, Magnus was silent. Just watching, his words run out. But this wasn’t enough to even distract the Assassin – no, thought Magnus bitterly, his eyes on the pinch where the man’s muscles bit his spine at the small of his back, he was probably happy that he’d finally conditioned Magnus into silence.

“Whaddaya even do with this shit? Do you cook it?” asked Magnus with a sneer, swinging his weight from the hook. The Assassin didn’t respond. “I know you eat it. Do you fuck it?”

The sound of a hunting knife sawing through viscera replied to him. Magnus winced as the flesh gave way on the other side of the blade with a slurping sound. The things he had heard down here. He was not coming out the other side of this the same.

“Saying nothing, huh,” he said anyway, his smirk strained. “Yeah. That speaks volumes, don’t it. Well, I won’t tell. Don’t even wanna think about it, ugh!”

And yet he was.

“It’ll be our little secret,” said Magnus finally and turned away, too disquietened by his own thoughts to stay looking at the man. The Assassin didn’t say anything. 

Magnus went back to their captives and immediately told them what he thought. He rarely got anything out of them these days, as Toki had regressed into a babbling toddler and the woman – shit, what was her name again? – periodically swung between striking against his abuse by keeping silent and talking back to him. It was a shame he’d forgotten her name actually, as she was about the only sane person he had to talk to down here – equally intelligent, grounded, a poetic mind, and just as lonely and starved of intellectual conversation as he was. If they had met under any other circumstances Magnus could see them becoming good friends or even more. She was his type. But he unfortunately also knew she’d been fucking Nathan, and therefore she could stay eating off the god damn floor.

He sat on a rusting kitchen chair opposite the two of them in the dark and told them that the Assassin fucked dead bodies. Or he was pretty sure. Since he received nothing more than two sets of harrowed eyes staring back at him, Magnus resolved to just fill the air again, and maybe give them a scare while he was at it. Like maybe he was mad – coy giggle – but all those hours down there with no company but the dead. And he wasn’t interested in either of them alive, was he? Hmm? You’d think having two beautiful captives, and such a _monster_ , not like _Magnus_ – but no. Here they were, unviolated. Until they died of course, then he’d probably pop out their eyes and fuck the sockets, and he’d probably reach their brains, like… you know what they say about big men.

Magnus curled his nails into the denim on his thighs as he said this, making eye contact with the woman. “ _You_ know about big men,” he purred nastily, a suggestive curl to his smirk, knowing full well how much taller he stood than Nathan. The woman just glared at him.

That was if they were lucky. There were so many holes, man. So much you could do – _the Assassin_ could do. And if he got bored he could just cut them a new one, fuck them directly in the innards. Magnus leaned back in the chair, stretching out his long legs lazily before him. That was, if Dethklok didn’t come. And Magnus wouldn’t do anything to stop him. Hell, he couldn’t do anything. The guy could throw him around like paper. He’d just have to watch while the Assassin opened them up, sternum to hip, and bathed in their blood as they hung from the meathooks above.

Magnus ran his long fingernail from his bare collarbone down to his belt to illustrate his words, licking his lips at the delicious thought, and then Toki said, “Uhhhhh Magnus… your boners ams showin’s through yous jeanspants.” And he giggled, deliriously, curled up on himself on the floor.

Magnus sat up abruptly, his face furrowed with confusion. To his own disgust and total humiliation, he realised that Toki was right and hunched over it, crossing his legs with a cough. On Toki’s other side, the woman looked at him with deep revulsion. Magnus frowned back at her. 

“Anyway,” he said awkwardly. “That’s just a coincidence. You know. My point is he’ll kill you, get his rocks off in the guts and then eat them, and that’s terrible.”

The woman stared at him, and then remarked dryly, “I never thought I’d be glad you’re feeding us dog food.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to get Kuru or something. That’d just be fucked up.”

She rolled her eyes. “So nice to hear that through it all, you still have standards.” Damn right he did. And with that, Magnus left them to it and went somewhere else to punch his dick until it learned its fucking lesson.

But now that he had seen, named the thing, it had hold of Magnus’ mind. He lay in the dark among the revengencers that night with images of women being ripped limb from limb by the Assassin dancing through his mind. Usually he’d welcome that kind of goregrind bullshit, but with every torn ligament, every bone popped out of its socket, Magnus felt it viscerally in his own body and his dick twitched with anticipation. When his wandering mind drifted to a meat axe slammed into his own sternum with a crunch, thick meaty fingers clawing into the wound to peel back his ribcage, bones snapping, Magnus surfaced suddenly, clutching a hand over his bare chest and gasping. He stared into the dark, listening to his own raspy lungs scratch as he panted like he’d woken from a nightmare. Had he? Had he dreamed of it? But if he had, the stain on the crotch of his jeans told of a very different type of dream.

Okay. So it was a thing now. That was fine, Magnus had had some fucked up fantasies before. He’d even fantasized about his co-workers at the packing factory before – there was something about working with meat that did that to him, though usually his fantasies were about removing limbs with a meat axe rather than getting them removed. It’d pass. He’d walk it off. There were better things to think about, like – uh, _revenge_ , for one.

In the meantime it was pertinent that he spend as little time around the Assassin as possible. Magnus retreated to the warehouse that topped out their basement lair. It was about the only place there that he could be alone, and since the city had dissolved so drastically in the past decade there was little danger of being noticed from the outside. Still, they kept the doors locked and Magnus rarely strayed far from the drain opening that led below. He had an overturned milk crate there, and when he needed to clear his mind he slunk to the surface with his guitar on his back, sat down in the warehouse and tuned up to play out his melancholy. Besides, the acoustics in the big empty warehouse were beautiful. There was a reason he’d chosen this place to practice in when they had first started rehearsing together…

That was too painful to think about. Instead Magnus played, staring vacantly into the gloomy warehouse, the sunlight through the smoke clouds outside bathing it in orange light through the gaps in the metal sheeting. He would like to say that his best music came from his pain, and that he was able to write through it, but the truth was that Magnus had not written a song of any value in years. His last album had been a commercial flop and had hit the critics like a dead mouse dropped at their feet by a pet cat, unwanted, damp with blood and wincing at its own arrogance. He had been sick with anger at the time, but in hindsight Magnus could hear its failure. He was classically trained and he knew a good song when he heard it. Everything he’d recorded then, and everything he’d written since, had been cold and dead, insipid and uninspired. He had lost it. He had gone bad. And after that, nothing remained but anger.

Instead, bent over his acoustic guitar with crooked nails and a spine twisted by scoliosis, Magnus played from muscle memory. His early triumphs. His teenage loves. Sometimes Dethklok originals, ones he’d written and re-recorded solo, clawing them back from the greedy hands of his former bandmates. He tried, of course – he ran through his warm up exercises, his fingers danced across the jazz measures and the tetrachords, and then he always tried to write. This time was no different; Magnus stared into nothing and strummed a few sweet chords, a ballad perhaps, and they were basic but they pleased his lonely ears this day, and the beautiful resonance from the space before him, and he wondered if perhaps he had missed his calling in metal. And was it too late, to go back and pursue a career in folk music, or would that be turning his belly to the world.

The real problem were his lyrics. Magnus had long since stopped finding his pain interesting, and his poetics held the same boredom and frustration as he felt every day. He had a few chords today but as he tried to fish for words, he found his mind wandering again. First to blank spaces, and he gave a rough strum in anger as they flitted into the dark recesses of his mind when his spotlight fell near them, and then to the blunt and distasteful as he pulled up short. Write a song about anger. Write a song about the end times. Write a song about Dethklok failing and dying, and all their fans hating them, and shame and ugliness and the red, red sky.

He would write a song about shooting himself in the head. With these tight chords, tight strings – they reminded him of a gunshot, tension on a trigger. Blood and brain and bits of bone. When Magnus tried to imagine shooting someone else, even Dethklok, he failed and the muzzle was suddenly in his own face, shoved into his mouth by an assailant in the dark, clipping his teeth. A killer. An assassin…

And then he was just looking into the warehouse, totally alone, the strum echoed into nothing. Oh. How humiliating. He was never going to live this down.


	2. Chapter 2

Magnus smoked in the tunnels and on the stairs, kicked around some frothing revengencers. It was almost working by the third day, avoiding the guy, keeping out from under his feet and just terrorizing his goons, when he had to go and ruin everything again – this time, Magnus was in one of the dank tunnels deep under where the water from the bay seeped in and wet the concrete floors, looking for a rats’ nest he was assured was there so that he could set it alight, a can of petrol in his fist. Rats meant a way in. He would find it, solve the problem, and block the leak.

He heard the Assassin before he saw him, but even then Magnus was spooked by how soon his looming pale visage appeared at the edge of the spotlight following his footsteps heard on the flooded concrete. Magnus turned his flashlight on him and only then jumped, giving a helpless rattle of fear as the light jumped over those hideous features and glinted from the mask, and when he caught himself he lowered it to the man’s chest, conscious of blinding his ally even though the Assassin didn’t even flinch.

“ _Buddy,_ ” wheezed Magnus, gurning up at the man. The sea water dripped from the ceiling and splashed the Assassin’s ragged shirt, sticking it to his scarred chest like a flag to a castle wall. He was almost upon Magnus, having snuck up behind him almost silently despite his bulk. Magnus was suddenly very aware how poorly he monitored the other man’s movements. He could be anywhere, anytime. And he always seemed to know where to find him.

“What’s up?” he squeaked, and the Assassin glowered down at him.

Slowly, the tower of a man cast back a gloved hand down the tunnel, pointing back from whence they’d both came. “ _YOU NEED TO FEED THEM_ ,” he rasped in that dreadful voice, all rust and broken razors. Magnus blinked up at him, his flashlight pointed right at the guy’s crotch. Made you wonder, huh. Ha.

“Feed whom?” he said, at pains to speak correctly when so many people around here butchered the language. The Assassin did not elaborate, continuing to point and stare at him, and then Magnus realized, gathering himself against the wall. “Oh, uh, he and she? I guess,” he conceded, glancing that way and tipping the petrol can so that the liquid sloshed inside it.

“ _IT’S YOUR JOB._ ” The Assassin lowered his arm, glared at Magnus, and then turned from him, heading back along the tunnel with the sea water splashing around his ankles. Magnus watched his receding back demurely, the flashlight hanging from his fingers.

“Yeah, right,” he said to himself, and frowned at the tightness in his gut again. But instead of linger on it, he set some small animals on fire, and then saw about opening a can of dog food with his hunting knife for the unlucky pair.

Down in the hole he found the two of them cowered in the corner against one another, the woman sitting upright with Toki curled over her lap, apparently asleep. Magnus wondered idly if they fucked each other when he wasn’t there. The woman was a looker, or she had been before the bags had gotten bad under her eyes and her ribs had started to show through her skin, paling in the dark. Not that he was one to talk. They had to, right? He would, if he was chained to her. And hell. What else was there to do down here.

“He asleep?” Magnus asked as he stepped out of the darkness towards them, and the woman shot a homicidal look up at him. It appeared that today she was talking.

“Yes. He passed out from the hunger a few hours ago,” she said, her voice raspy with thirst. Magnus knew for a fact that she wasn’t dying from it; he’d seen them drink from the water that condensed on the walls and dripped into puddles on the floor.

“Are you going to wake him?” he asked curiously, carrying a sly implication that perhaps, if she did not, she would have all the food to herself. The woman glared at him at first, but appeared to realize the promise as he slowly crossed to her, his bootsteps quiet and a saunter in his hips. A spooked ghost of an emotion passed over her face as she realized, but by the time Magnus had placed down the bowl, she had returned to a steely glare.

“Yes. When you leave,” she said, still cradling Toki’s head.

“Sure,” said Magnus. He stood over her with a smile and waited for the outburst, and certain enough, it came.

“The _idea_ that I’d _stoop_ to eat this _crap_ in front of you,” hissed the woman in acid tones, “I haven’t yet and I won’t—”

“Yeah yeah, ever, never ever, I know. You are above that, aren’t you,” said Magnus, rolling his eyes, and then he turned away from her to drag the chair over, outside of the reach of their chains but close enough, and sat down in front of her, leaning towards her expectantly. The woman looked up at him, and then at the dog food, and then into the air.

“Aren’t you?” asked Magnus, smiling sweetly. Dark eyes flicked up to him again, staring holes through him. He was well aware how hungry she was. She was a smart one, though, and had quickly realized what he was playing at.

“Fuck you,” she snarled. “Shitheel.” Bless. Magnus just smiled at her.

“Now now. No need to be rude,” he said, and then suddenly tilted his head away from her, remarking, “Oh,” as if in realization. The woman watched him, suspicious.

“What.”

“That time of the month. I see,” said Magnus, and his smile twitched again as she breathed out short and full of hate, her hands tangled in Toki’s long hair. He turned his head back to her, grinning through his hair. “Am I wrong?”

“I haven’t had one of those in months,” she whispered at him, her stare still on his chest. “You can’t, when you’re starving.”

“Oh, you _are_ starving then? Well, it’s right there waiting for you. Can’t say I don’t spoil you,” said Magnus. He kicked back on the chair lazily, his heart singing with the game of it. “How would you know, anyway – if it’s stopped – you have a calendar down here I don’t know about?”

She had nothing to say to this, and Magnus basked in his victory. He pulled himself back upright on the chair, flipping his hair back over his shoulders again and leaning towards her, his hands pressed together as though he were praying. “Now. While we’re talking personally,” he said, and was about to address her when he remembered he had forgotten what she was called a while ago. “What was your name again?”

The woman’s left eyelid twitched with her anger. “Abigail—”

“ _Abigail._ Yeah. Right. Abigail. This is a great opportunity actually. See, I have something to ask you. Just you. Not him.” 

Abigail watched him closely, trying to pick his game. “This better not be one of your sick little fantasies again,” she said, meaning the many times now Magnus had come down to plant ideas in her head, dreaming aloud in full technicolor gore, but Magnus shook his head at her.

“No. It’s more… I’d like to ask you a _personal_ question,” he said, and Abigail didn’t even move except to cast a glance at the food bowl, then back up at him.

“What do I get?”

“Ha! Get straight to the quick, don’t ya, darling?” He didn’t give her time to rebuke – it was a fair question despite his protest. “I’m sure I can find _something_ to make it worth your while.”

Abigail was biting her tongue to ask for something, but Magnus did not allow her to speak, posing as though he was in deep contemplation over the subject. “I could get you something from the surface,” he offered, searching his mind with his fingers stroked thoughtfully through his beard, “Now, what do chicks like?”

She was almost biting through her lip.

“A magazine? But you can’t read down here in the dark, huh. By your own report you got no use for lady’s… items. Ehh… nail polish? Pellegrino?” Magnus smirked at Abigail as her eyes narrowed sharply at him. “Contact with your friends and family – nah. Too much effort,” he purred, kicking back in the chair. Despite his boasting, he really had no idea what he _could_ even offer her. The Assassin was strict about removing every joy they could have, and would probably take anything he smuggled down here. If he really did bring her sparkling water or makeup, Magnus would certainly pay once it was discovered.

But his mind wandered then to the little radio he toted about – in fact he had brought it down here before, and it wasn’t beyond belief that he could accidentally leave it, wiggle away from punishment by excuse… and he sat upright again, smiling genially at the harrowed woman. “The radio,” he said, and pointed a promising finger at her, “You can have my radio. There isn’t much signal down here, but you could – you could… hear what they’re saying about you, up above.”

His finger rose, pointing to the dripping ceiling. “And music… you were a groupie, weren’t you?”

Abigail’s face, which had softened with hope, suddenly steeled with rage. “I am _not_ a groupie—”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to hear his voice again? I can give you that, if only for a while.”

Abigail glared at him through the darkness. “I am a record producer,” she insisted, but it fell on deaf ears and Magnus simply smiled at her. She looked down at Toki, asleep with his head in her lap, and the hurt in her heart was blatant in her face. Magnus knew the value of his promise – if not to her, then to Toki certainly. How good it would be for their hopes to know Dethklok was searching for them, to hear their voices.

He couldn’t wait to see them once they heard that no one was coming.

“Deal,” said Abigail, meeting his eye. “What’s your question? Make it fast, I’m hungry.”

Magnus smiled sweetly at her. “It’s about Nathan,” he said. Abigail cringed viscerally.

“Ugh, why!”

“Nuh-uh, you made a deal, honey,” he purred, sitting up in his chair and craning forward to her. “It ain’t my fault you made it with the devil.” 

In the dark, Abigail rolled her eyes. “Fine. Hit me,” she said, and Magnus chuckled at her.

“I wouldn’t go talking like that, you might tempt me,” he said, but the threat was empty this time. Instead, he searched for the words he wanted, his greasy hair falling over his face as he tilted it thoughtfully. “Nathan and I… we have a history.”

“I’m aware,” said Abigail shortly. Magnus peered at her, wondering just how much she actually knew. Like, did she _know_ know? Or did she just mean the band thing – the knife thing – ah, well. It barely mattered.

“Mm. Old news, old news,” he fussed, and then continued, “I ask… because I have concerns, presently… things which have come _up_ for me…”

He realized from the way Abigail was looking at him, utterly sick of his shit, that he was talking too vaguely about things she couldn’t give enough of a fuck to work out. So, uh, that was good.

“Nathan Explosion,” he mused aloud, taking her back to the point, “Is not a man of many words. Now, that display at the funeral was enough for me. But how did you know he had a thing for you, in the first place? That’s my question, _Abigail._ ”

Abigail frowned up at him, clearly trying to work out his game. “How did I _know_?” she asked tersely, “How could I _not?_ Those men, they’re like slathering _dogs_ – do you have any idea how they _get_ when they’re deprived for just a day?”

Magnus moved his lips like he was thinking about it, gave a little shrug to absolve himself even though duh, of course he knew. He’d been that person, once.

Abigail’s hands had stilled on Toki’s hair, and looking down at him, she gently brushed aside his long locks from his cheek. “Even you,” she said softly to him, and left a space for his soft breathing before she turned her face back up to Magnus. “Nathan was not what you’d call _subtle_ about it, to answer your question. He was pathetic. And after I cut him off, I had to change my phone number three times just to stop him from messaging me bullshit – he’s a complete pest, a boar, an idiot – ”

Here she trailed off, holding Toki’s shoulders tightly, and Magnus saw her gaze slip into the darkness. For a moment there was no sound but Toki’s whistling breathing and the dripping of the ceiling, and then Magnus tilted his head, his lips lightly pursed at the woman in appraisal.

“And you miss him,” he said, his low voice warm through the dark. Abigail did not move her gaze, ghastly, into nothing.

“Yes.”

Magnus let her word hang between them before he stretched out again, languid and almost bored. “Well, that’s totally god damn useless to me,” he said, kicking back in the chair. “Fucker must have lost his tact. Isn’t that sad? They get famous and they lose all their civility. Turn into pigs, fuckin’ chauvinist pigs just looking to get their little porky dicks wet.”

Abigail remained staring into nothing, knelt before him in her ripped dress, filthy and exposed, the bowl of dog food between them.

“Makes me glad I didn’t get famous, fuck,” said Magnus with a spike of his eyebrows. “You know, I just wanted to know cuz, I’m in a bit of a fix, right? Got a…”

Ah, shit. He couldn’t tell her it was the Assassin. Magnus scrambled for some other way to explain his problem.

“… friend,” – genius, he’d done it – “And I’m worried cuz, I reckon I’m picking up on vibes, y’know, from the universe, from… him. Them. From them… y’know? _Vibes._ ” He tried to paint her a picture of the situation, moving his hands before him as he explained. Abigail finally looked at him, bewildered, her eye drawn by his empty movements.

“But I dunno, you know? I can’t do shit with it unless I know. Fuckin’ dangerous, down here, for a dude… they’re all fucking cannibals, y’know? What if h—they… just want to fuckin’, eat me or shit? That’s probably it, ain’t it? Shit.”

Abigail blinked at him, and then her brow furrowed. “Are you asking me how to tell if a guy _likes_ you?” she asked with confused disgust, “Here? In a fucking torture basement?”

Magnus pouted at her, hopeless.

“Yes, he probably wants to eat you,” said Abigail flatly. Magnus mulled it over. “ _Not_ in a fun way,” she added, and this time he sighed.

“I guess you’re right,” he groaned, pulling himself back up in the chair. “That shouldn’t turn me on, huh?”

Abigail shook her head, her eyes wide with alarm. With just a grunt of reply, Magnus got to his feet again, towering over the two. “Yeah. Fuck. This place is driving me insane, swear to Christ,” he said, and kicked the chair back across the room as he turned away from them. 

“Don’t you dare tell shit about this, lady, or I’ll see you gutted before anyone touches me. I’m gonna go get that radio for you now. Don’t let it go to your head,” he threatened, climbing the stairs. By the time he returned with the device, the dog chow was already gone. Abigail looked up at him with surprise and gratitude as he turned it on and placed it close enough for the two to reach before hastily stepping away, not ready for any conflict tonight. He couldn’t blame her. He surprised himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to break it into smaller chunks for readers!

It didn’t take long for the Assassin to find the radio. Magnus wasn’t sure how often he went to check on the captives, and in fact he often wondered if he ever did – unless he suspected that something was wrong, since he never helped with them, never fed them or hosed them down, only searched for shit to take out on Magnus later.

This time he found Magnus sitting on the end of the mattress he shared with the revengencers, painstakingly trying to edit their latest extortion film on the hand-held camera itself with no computer equipment on hand down here. The Assassin entered, stood over him in silence, and dropped the radio at his feet. Magnus peered over the camera in his hands to watch it fall, a knob bouncing off it and skittering across the concrete when it hit.

Magnus looked up quickly to the Assassin again, his hand shooting behind him to scoot back, ready to flee. But nothing came. The Assassin frowned at him, turned away, and then left him in silence, his boot steps echoing down the passage and into nothing. Magnus watched him go, wide-eyed. And then was alone. High on his adrenaline, his radio broken. But alone.

He checked on the captives later, but they, too, were intact. When Magnus asked what had happened, Abigail told him that the Assassin had come down and wordlessly seized the device. Had to pull Toki off it, and kicked some dirty water at them in spite, but otherwise it was a painless operation. This displeased Magnus, and he paced in front of them, just out of reach of their chains, until Abigail snidely remarked, “Oh, what’s eating you, Magnus? Is it just the usual tapeworm, or did you want something else up your ass?”

The glare Magnus shot her could have eviscerated her on the spot. “Watch yourself, bitch,” he snarled with a finger raised in warning, but his shame ran too hot to stay down there. He turned tail, back into the labyrinthine passages of their lair.

It was an intoxicating mix, shame, rage, confusion and sexual frustration. Magnus stormed through the passages with a dark cloud over his head, sorting desperately for an act, a relief, an outlet. Shoving a hapless revengencer down a stairwell as he passed was a start, but even as he heard the man fall onto concrete at the bottom with a crunch and a splat, Magnus knew it wasn’t enough. If anything the idiot’s helplessness made him angrier, like couldn’t these fucks even fight back? What the fuck were they meant to do when Dethklok got here? And where was Dethklok? Why wasn’t it working? He floored another revengencer in the hang out room with a well-placed headbutt as he approached to address Magnus, and the man’s companions watched dumbstruck as the camera fell out of their friend’s hand onto the floor.

Magnus picked it up, opening the viewfinder in his hand. The video he’d been working on was still there, showing himself frozen with the Assassin’s dark figure silhouetted behind him, massive, monstrous. “What the fuck are you pissants doing with this?” he snapped, trying to fight back the intrusive thoughts of being crushed into a mattress or choked in the darkness, and when the revengencers just ummed and erred at him he kicked the man on the ground in the ribs, rewarded with a cry of pain as his pointed boot connected.

“You see this shit?” Magnus said, raising the camera to the gathered revengencers, “This shit is _my_ business. This shit is _for me, only_ me, my eyes only! I’m the brains of this operation! I’ve got this shit under control. You know the fucking rules!”

As he lectured them, Magnus saw that the doorways were filling with more revengencers, peering in at the scene unfolding. Natural; this room was the center of the complex, contained a few chairs and another mattress, and it was easy to hear what happened here throughout the tunnels. And these fucks thrived on drama.

As for the group that had approached him, they just stared at him in mute terror.

“ _Hell-lo?”_ asked Magnus, waving the camera at them. Still no response. “Anyone in there, fuckface? Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t get any fucking respect around here.”

He kicked the man at his feet again, just because he could. The revengencers muttered between themselves, but none of them spoke to Magnus, and he was getting fucking sick of it.

“What was even going through your puny fucking minds?” he snarled, and then drew himself up, composing himself, a thought occurring. “Oh, no, I know. I see. Look at the way you’re all standing around blank fuckin’ faced.”

Magnus drew close to the huddled revengencers, standing over them with his not-insignificant height, right in their faces. “It was the Assassin, huh? Did he ask you to do this? The big, _scawwy_ Assassin?” he asked, mocking them through a pout. “You fucking babies, fucking _infants_. Pissy little piss-your-pants _babies._ ”

“M-Magnus,” whimpered one of the revengencers, looking up at him with blind terror. Magnus snarled down at him.

“Yes? You have something to say to me?” But he didn’t let the guy get a chance to speak back. “This is mine,” Magnus said, holding the camera in the frightened man’s face, and then took a step backwards, opening his hands to the room at large. “This _whole thing_ is mine. It’s my idea. It’s my fucking operation. What have you seen that hulking white turd do recently, that’s actually useful? He’s auxiliary. I’m in charge. You know it.”

“Magnus,” chirped another revengencer, a woman this time, and Magnus rounded on her, spinning on his heel.

“Oh, you got something to say? Bitch?” he said. The woman fell silent, wide-eyed, horrified, her hand raised in front of her with one pointing finger slowly curling down again. “I thought not. What were you thinking, oh, well, he’s bigger so clearly he’s in charge? ‘Oh Magnus, watch out! He’ll hear you and he’ll kill you!’ He’s a lump of lard and steroids. That shit shrinks your fucking brain, _and_ your balls, that’s a fucking fact. He can’t do shit to me. He _needs_ me. The fucking wuss.”

Silence. Darkness. Magnus looked over the watching faces before him, and slowly realized that they weren’t looking at him. They were looking over his shoulder, mute, cold fear reflected in their eyes. And something else. Metal. A shot of terror bolted through Magnus’ heart like ice, and when he turned, his fears were confirmed.

The Assassin stood behind him, stone-faced, stone-bodied. He’d seen it all. Heard it all. Magnus was going to die.

“Hey,” said Magnus, looking up at him, “You lich fuck.”

The Assassin stared through him, unmoved. Magnus gulped back on the lump that had formed in his throat. When he spoke again, it came out in a squeal, wandering over the octaves drunk on terror.

“Yeah, I said that. To your face. I said it.” He was almost reminding himself of the fact, shocked to disbelief at his own behavior. “It’s fuckin’ – it’s true. Yeah. You know it. _You_ know it.”

Magnus pointed at the Assassin. The Assassin watched him, expressionless. “ _You…_ know it,” he said again, and extended his hand, testing the guy. Nothing. Magnus’ finger touched the Assassin’s chest. Prodded him right in the swollen pectoral, face-height with Magnus. He was too solid to push, but Magnus tried.

“We all know it,” he said as he pulled his hand back, and he heard a voice from the gathered crowd pipe up, _we’re not part of this._

“Shut up, you fucking lice.” Magnus let out a shaking breath. He couldn’t believe this was happening. The thrill of it. The fucking frustration, knowing it had to burst at some point – he felt like he was walking on clouds, just waiting for them to evaporate and to go plummeting to the floor. In a way, he wanted to fall. Anything to end this, remind him that his place was crawling in the gunk, always had been. He couldn’t fucking deal with winning. And now the Assassin just faced him, let him win. He felt like he was going to puke.

Instead, he threw the camera on the floor, looking up at the Assassin defiantly. All his work ruined. Magnus could not stop.

“I’m in charge. I make the rules. They’re my prisoners. This is _my_ revenge. I’ll do whatever I fucking want,” he said, his voice high pitched with fear. “And you can suck it. You…”

Magnus poked the Assassin again. No response.

“Big…”

Again. No response.

“Pussycat.”

Again.

This time, a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist as it withdrew, holding it bone-crushingly tight. Magnus yelped like a kicked dog. And then the Assassin punched him the fuck out.

It happened so fast and with so much force that Magnus barely knew what had happened to him. One second his hand was being clutched and he was looking up at the cold metal face above him, the next his back had struck the brick wall, his skull ringing from a blow so hard it had thrown him off his feet and staggering into the wall, cleared by the revengencers who had been standing against it. His head tipped back to strike it after his back, tilting backwards, and Magnus tried to work out just what had happened. What had been hit. His eye socket. His nose. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stand. Something was wrong.

“Ow,” said Magnus, dizzily. And then something popped.

A vein, deep inside his head. The blood swelled into his nostrils and poured down the back of his throat, flooding mouth with the sharp, hot taste of iron and snot. He choked as he slid down the wall to his knees, the blood speckling his beard and chest as it sprayed from his face. Above him, the Assassin stood like a cold tower, completely unmoved.

“ _Oh, fuck,_ ” spluttered Magnus, the blood coating his tongue. His skull was still humming as he turned his eyes up to the man and blinked, gulping back the blood. “Is that all you got?” His voice wavered, like he was going to vomit or faint, and he swayed where he knelt, the concrete cold through the torn knees of his jeans. The Assassin glowered down at him, a hundred gleaming eyes of cowering revengencers watching from the shadows.

He could hear the drops of blood from his face splashing on the concrete before him. Everything still, holding its breath. And then the Assassin lunged.

The guy’s hand was so big that it wrapped around Magnus’ skinny neck without even a stretch. He dragged Magnus choking by his throat away from the wall, and then released him only to snatch him by the hair as Magnus dropped, seeing the concrete rising rapidly towards his face. Instead that pallid paw caught him, a handful of his long hair as though he was a decapitated trophy, and skulldragged him screaming and clawing at the hand that held him. But struggling only lead to more pain as his scalp was tugged, and Magnus was soon hanging off the Assassin’s hand, moaning as the industrial concrete plucked at the bared skin of his lower back where his belt was pushed down by the drag.

The horrified faces of the revengencers peered down at him as they parted for the Assassin. “Help me!” barked Magnus, kicking again but seeing his leg only go thrashing sideways, his Cuban heel bouncing on the concrete. There was no help coming. He could see the hunger in their eyes as they passed above him, anxious for the slaughter. And just like that he realised where they were headed.

The abattoir.

“ _No,_ ” gasped Magnus. And then he was dragged into the darkness. 


	4. Chapter 4

Magnus’ body was hurled down the steps, falling leg over head into silt, salty water and rotten gore that pooled on the floor. He lay there winded a second, shuddering with his fresh blood mixing into the sump. The smell was so intense, of piss and liquid shit and old blood, that Magnus could barely breathe in. The peace did not last long. He heard the Assassin’s steel capped boots descend the stairs behind him, the sucking splashes of his steps as he crossed the floor to Magnus’ side. 

A huge hand grabbed his hair, lifting his face from where he was bubbling into the gunk, and the other took him by the back of his belt, lifting him bodily into the air. Magnus groaned helplessly as he saw his reflection glance over the water beneath him as he was carried across the room, his image broken as the Assassin stomped through his reflected face. He could feel the blood pooling in his nostrils and dripping from the point of his nose, his gut turning as he was moved effortlessly by this monster of a man. “Oh, help,” whimpered Magnus again, and then everything lurched, and his back came slamming down onto cold steel.

The blood rolled hot across his lip, tracing a thin line down his jaw bone, over his neck, to drop onto the steel. The Assassin reached over him, and with a snap a violent bright light filled his world from above, forcing Magnus to turn onto his side and shield his shut eyes with his forearm. As he turned, groaning, the table shook beneath him and Magnus opened his eyes again, taking in what he was laying upon for the first time.

The dissection table.

He tossed back immediately, his eyes wide with horror against the burning light, screaming in the face of the Assassin as he loomed above. “God, no!” Magnus shrieked, but the man was mute, grabbing his whipping ankle and pulling it back over the edge and into the air, leaving Magnus to thrash desperately on the steel. The table had leather restraints. Magnus knew he had to avoid being strapped down, first and foremost. He had to escape.

He managed to half kick himself off the table with the next flailing blow, landing on the Assassin’s chest but doing nothing but dirtying his shirt. Magnus would have slithered sideways off it – maybe to safety, maybe to death, but the Assassin caught him by the belt and hauled him back, horizontal on the table now with his back screaming in pain at the angle, his hair hanging down weighted by the gunk from the floor. He had his hands on the Assassin’s instantly, scratching his wrist and trying to pry the huge fingers from his belt buckle, prevent the palm from pressing onto the swell at his crotch and resolve to kill him for sure, when a long, bright dissection knife appeared at the base of his throat. 

Magnus froze. The blade barely touched him, yet he could feel the sting of a cut on the skin of the neck. He looked up across his shuddering body at the Assassin, the blood leaking back into his nostrils and into his throat. He could hear the man’s heavy breath, those heavy, decaying lungs. He could hear his own breath too, broken by involuntary whimpers as he shuddered there, suspended across the table. The hand pressed into his crotch, still holding tight onto his belt, and Magnus groaned as his dick was bent against his pelvis. He was going to die. He was going to die, with the hardest fucking erection of his life.

Oh well. At least he wouldn’t bleed out from the throat if it was all down there, huh.

The Assassin dragged him back towards his body, his fingers wrapped around Magnus’ belt buckle, until his shoulders were back on the table. He could feel his pelvis suspended, his body hanging from the man’s hand effortlessly as the monster leaned across him, eclipsed the light. The blade still at his throat. Magnus closed his eyes, ready for death, and felt the hot breath against his face, stinking of rot and human flesh. When he opened his eyes, he would be looking upon the Fifth Circle of Hell. At least Dethklok would still die by the Assassin’s hands, unhampered by him. He was prepared to go.

But death did not follow.

Something soft and warm touched Magnus’ face, the breath felt directly on his lips, tasted on his tongue. The knife had moved away. Magnus opened his eyes in shock to feel the Assassin’s mouth against his own, and impulsively pressed up towards him, returning the kiss with a seal, a stroke. The Assassin snorted, shook him by the belt, and Magnus choked as the cold air touched his lips again. With growing horror, Magnus felt the mouth press to his again, not quite a kiss but a suck on his upper lip, then to the side of his mouth – he realized, his heart pounding in his throat, that the Assassin was drinking the blood from his skin just as the man’s broad tongue lashed across his cheek and down his neck to chase the trail of blood. 

“Oh, fuck,” wheezed Magnus, about to cry with his terror, but a mouth on his neck was still a mouth on his neck, and the heat of his arousal boiled through him as the Assassin attached his lips to the sliver cut on his throat, sucking the blood from it. Magnus raised his hand and sunk his fingers into the filthy white hair, anchoring himself as the man fed at his neck. “Oh god, please,” he whispered, struggling to find his voice around the tug at his throat, “Don’t eat me. Please don’t eat me. I can do so much for you. Please, man, let me live.”

Hearing him, the Assassin released his throat, Magnus gasping as his head dropped off the edge of the table again. Those terrible blank eyes stared into him, unfeeling, appraising his pain. “ _THAT IS THE PLAN,_ ” rasped the Assassin, and he hauled on Magnus, pulling him backwards with his head striking the edge of the table with a clunk. “ _I CAN ONLY EAT YOU ONCE. I WANT TO ENJOY IT._ ”

“Oh, thank god,” whimpered Magnus, and then the Assassin dropped him on the floor again.

This time, Magnus was sure he felt his elbow crunch as it hit the wet stone, something fracturing inside it. He howled out at the pain, curling over on himself like a kicked dog. The Assassin towered above him, cut out by the surgical light, the blade bright in his fist, and then his boot came down on Magnus’ cheek, not stomping but pressing, crushing him into the flagstones. 

_“YOU BEG ME FOR MERCY. YOU SAY YOU CAN SERVE ME,”_ came the snarl, and Magnus rolled his upwards eye – by chance, his good one - towards the shadow, the light catching on the steel mask like a sliver of the moon. _“YOU ARE GOING TO PROVE IT.”_

“ _Oh,_ ” whimpered Magnus, and his dick throbbed as the boot pressed into his cheek. When it lifted and the Assassin shifted his pose, standing with his legs further apart and his hands unbuckling his belt, Magnus felt a pop in his brain. Like a little orgasm; jeez, he was fucked up. The arousal had gotten too much, mixed with the fear – but his erection was still strong, his jeans sopping with the cold muck pooled on the floor.

Released, Magnus hauled himself off the ground and then made to stand. The knife twitched down to his face again, flashing in front of his eyes before he had even straightened, and Magnus looked up at the foreboding cold face above him for any hint of pity. None. Slowly, he sank to his knees again, his kneecaps screaming with pain as they ground through the wet denim onto the bare stone. His long body meant that even with the Assassin’s mammoth height, Magnus was left at waist height on his knees, and he gulped in spite of the sting on his throat as he fully realized what was going on, saw the outline against the leather-clad crotch. It didn’t get much blunter than a dick in your face. Now, sitting pretty here as the Assassin fished his half-hard cock out before him, Magnus knew that sometimes, nightmares did come true.

“Woah,” he bleated pathetically, looking wide-eyed at it clutched in the Assassin’s fist. The Assassin didn’t even blink – could he even blink? – and Magnus looked back up at him nervously. “Ha ha, I guess it is true what they say about big men, hey, buddy,” he giggled, and a huge hand came down on his scalp, shoving his face forward until it almost touched it. He could smell it, damp and like mold and sweat, trapped in leather with no room to breathe too long. 

As the Assassin moved his shoulder, the light glanced down his hard body to illuminate his fist and the awful member save for the shadow of Magnus’ head cast across it; to his reckoning, it was an easy eight inches soft, and a disgusting pale color the likes Magnus had never seen, like an enormous white slug. Foreskin intact. He could see the head was darker, a gross purple peeking from the end of the furled skin and lending a blush to the length. There was metal in that head, a clunky bullring with a captive ball fed into the urethra and exiting below, the foreskin bunched against it. And it was thick. Really fucking thick. Like thicker than Nathan’s, which was the thickest fucking dick Magnus had ever put in his mouth, over a decade ago. He looked up at the Assassin again, giddy with terror and mad arousal, and giggled. The Assassin didn’t even flinch.

With the hand gripping his hair tight and pushing him forward, Magnus gave in. To it, to the Assassin, to lust, to the sickness of the whole thing; he ducked forward with his mouth open, taking the drooping head on his tongue, and his eyes still up on the Assassin for any cringe or shudder of pleasure. Nothing. He could taste the metal, the build up around it like battery fluid as he sucked on it, flinching when he let his lips wrap around the shaft, realizing once again how thick it was, this time as viscerally as was possible. 

He scooched forward on his knees, letting his hands seek the Assassin’s legs to support him – yeah, something had definitely gone wrong with his right arm when he fell on it, the pain shooting up and leaving it spasming by his side. His left, though, Magnus slid up the leather-clad thigh, then stuck it into the Assassin’s fly, hot and humid. His eyes shut as he focused on the pain and not the cock sliding, metal ring first, to the back of his tongue, Magnus’ fingers searched blindly for the Assassin’s balls, and when he found them, took them gently into his palm. Fuck, they were huge. He moaned around the cock in his mouth, and then gagged as the steel ring touched the back of his throat. The Assassin held him down. The pierced cock twitched on his tongue.

Was that enough? Was he doing right? When Magnus turned his eyes up those abs – _god, those abs_ – to the face he saw no change in the Assassin’s face, just scowling down at him and grinding his face into his groin. Magnus choked on the cock as he tried to recall how to deepthroat this shit, something about tucking your thumb into your fist, which he did, drawing his hand out of the Assassin’s fly to rest against his thigh, and the swelling cock shoved down his gullet. Blood spurted clotted from his blocked nose as he gagged on it and splattered on the Assassin’s white pubes, exposed by his leather pants dragged down in Magnus’ left fist. As his head started to spin again, asphyxiating on the fat fucking thing blocking his airway, the Assassin placed his other hand gently on Magnus’ scalp, the hard metal of the knife resting against his skull. It was as though the Assassin was cradling him, nursing the same head he held tight to his hilt, spluttering and weeping against him.

“ _CHOKE,_ ” he rasped, and Magnus felt good, the drool rolling down his chin, gathering in his beard. He was good. He was _doing_ good. The intimacy was intoxicating, fucking with a guy so huge. If he couldn’t be the one in control, at least he was second, at least he was _special._ His left hand reached up, shaking, and came down to splay against the Assassin’s beautiful hard abs, rubbing his damp shirt across them. Magnus leaned his chest on the man’s thighs as he turned his eyes up at them, groaning and bubbling as he saw the figure above him blurred by his tears and asphyxiation. The Assassin wasn’t even looking at him, just staring somewhere into the dark as he thrust mindlessly into Magnus’ throat. But it was so perfect. But – _fuck._ He was so weak.


	5. Chapter 5

The Assassin grew bored of Magnus’ gagging and released him, giving him a rough shove so that he fell with a splash back into the scum that covered the floor. Magnus gasped as he pushed himself up onto his shoulders, blinking the water and gore from his eyes as it dripped gruesomely from his face and coughing up excess saliva, snot and blood. When the Assassin shifted in the light, Magnus looked up abruptly, ready to defend himself, and saw the cock that had been down his throat at full size now, ten inches glistening in the light, coated in spit and spiderwebbed with his blood. His face dropped with horror, realizing with the Assassin’s cold stare down at him that his experience was far from about to end with just a skullfuck.

“Hey, buddy,” said Magnus, peering between his fingers with a cowardly smile. “What next? Anything you like, I’m down for anything, I’m a sicko, you know—”

“ _SHUT UP.”_ A splash of rancid water hit Magnus in the face, kicked by the Assassin’s boot, and he spat it back in disgust. Above him, the Assassin looked at the steel table, his hand resting on it lovingly, and then back at Magnus again. “ _TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES,_ ” he instructed, and turned away from Magnus altogether to fiddle with a trough of metal tools that hung from the edge of the table. Magnus dripped miserably and looked up at him, feeling suddenly cold and insignificant as the man ignored him. When he noticed nothing had progressed, the Assassin glared down at him and snarled, “ _NOW.”_ And that was enough to kick Magnus back into action.

“Okay. Okay.” He pulled his shirt off his shoulders with a bloody sniffle, careful with his injured elbow. Balling the shirt up, Magnus tried to balance it on the base plate of the dissection table, but found the steel dripping gore and coagulated body fluids. Instead he held it uselessly in his hand a moment and then just dropped it into the puddles he was knelt in. It was already ruined. The belt followed, though that he cast across the railings at the base of the table, then boots, and then his jeans and briefs, peeled wet off his legs and slapped sopping over the railings.

He got to his feet with difficulty, his skin prickling at the cold and the clots of gore that squeezed between his toes in the sump underfoot. His cock was still hard. “Jesus,” he muttered, grimacing at his body – pale and covered in filth, the blood still dripping onto his chest, he looked like death. The Assassin still ignored him, standing there beside the monster with his left hand folded over his chest for the warmth, the right trembling with pain, until Magnus coughed for his attention and then, only then, did he look aside at his victim. The Assassin was unmoved by the sight of Magnus’ rail-thin nude body and merely gestured to the table with an inviting open palm, dick still out and sagging slightly as he neglected it. 

Magnus scowled at him – he wanted to resist, he always wanted to push back. When he didn’t move to get onto the table, the Assassin suddenly lurched, grabbing him by his hair again and slinging him bodily over it, belly flat onto the cold steel. “Fuck!” Magnus hissed, clutching at the metal, only for the Assassin to take his ankle in a gloved hand and turn him effortlessly around, lengthwise on the table as he should have been. Magnus tried to get his elbows down to push himself back up, but his right wrist was snatched from him quickly and his arm stretched out to a howl of pain as his elbow was crooked against its injury. He was so transfixed that he didn’t even notice the leather strap tightened around his wrist until the Assassin had caught his other wrist and done the same at the adjacent corner of the table, restraining his hands above his head while his face and body were pressed against the metal.

Magnus shivered and protested as the Assassin attempted to do the same with his legs, but realised when he felt no straps that he actually lay too long on the table, too tall, and overhung the edge by his calves. The Assassin held his ankles together with a single hand and puzzled about this, and then just released him, leaving Magnus to turn onto his right shoulder slightly, one leg drawn up to his side while the other hung off the far end. At least it took his weight off his cock. That shit didn’t feel too good being ground into fucking metal.

“Real funny,” Magnus sneered around a nose full of blood, fixing on the Assassin down the table with his one good eye, “Real kinky shit. I knew you liked to play with your food.”

The Assassin smiled at him, and Magnus fell deathly quiet. He’d seen that smile in nightmares, engrained in the marrow of his bones, on Discovery Channel during Shark Week. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he wanted to please the Assassin after all.

“ _YOU ARE ENJOYING THIS,”_ he said, more of an order than an observation. Magnus grimaced at him down the table, and when he spoke, he struggled to even hold down his nervous giggle.

“My – my nose is broken. I’m covered in – shit, and blood, my elbow—”

“ _YOU ARE ENJOYING THIS.”_

With a shudder, Magnus gritted his teeth and tried to turn his hand in the bonds. The Assassin had turned away from him to go through the trough of tools, and Magnus intended to use the distraction to at least get his hand free. “Okay,” he said, biting back his pain as he twisted his hand. “So what if I am, ha, perhaps I wanted this. Perhaps I was baiting you. And it worked, huh. Cuz I love what I hate, and I love to hate, and you—”

The Assassin raised his head, leaning an arm on the table with a horrible looking tool in his hand, and spat directly into Magnus’ face. “ _SHUT UP. YOU TALK TOO MUCH,”_ he snarled with a weird ambivalence, and Magnus hissed in protest, unable to wipe away the saliva that had hit him in a spray over his neck and face with his hands bound.

“Yeah,” he growled back, “Not used to your lays talking back, huh. Dead men tell no tales…” The Assassin stood over him at the foot of the table, his face cold and still.

“ _IF YOU DON’T SHUT THE FUCK UP, I’LL DO IT FOR YOU, PARASITE.”_

The blade made a brief reappearance, touched cold to the artery in his hip, and Magnus fell silent. He was probably serious about that. He held his tongue just long enough for the blade to be lifted and to blink the spit out of his eyes, and then looked further down his body, at the other item in the Assassin’s hands.

“Which hole’s that go in, then? Or are you gonna give me a new one?” he asked snarkily, though quieter this time – it was impossible to turn off, the gabbing, even on the other side of all these threats and blows. The instrument looked like a pair of scissors, steel gleaming under the bright light, but they had three arms instead of two. The blades rose straight, but then turned at a right angle, extending about five inches, with the three blades coming to a blunt point where they touched at the end. Magnus visualised it being used to grab his tongue in a tong, pulling it out of his mouth and silencing him. The Assassin looked him in the eye – or as much as he could tell, against the light and those dreadful white voids – but did not answer. He had other ways of shutting Magnus the fuck up.

The Assassin took Magnus by his raised ankle and moved it further up as he rounded the table to his front, still holding it securely, his leg bent, as he held out the instrument to Magnus’ face. “ _OPEN,”_ he demanded, and Magnus, thinking his predictions correct, reluctantly did. The blunt blades were shoved into his mouth, and the Assassin nudged his mouth closed on them with the back of his knuckles where he held the arms. The metal was cool on Magnus’ tongue, and he looked up at the Assassin resentfully as he explored it – three steel arms, totally blunt, smooth and cool. There was no sound save for the Assassin’s breathing while he let it sit in his mouth, tilting it to a slightly different angle so that the steel clicked on his teeth. This was weirdly peaceful, and Magnus imagined that this, in fact, was what the Assassin preferred. Quiet. Just prodding. Even though he had heard the screams himself.

The Assassin extracted it from his mouth wet with saliva, and Magnus just watched him in silence for a moment, not understanding as the man slid his huge hand up Magnus’ leg to hold him beneath the knee, raising it in front of him and turning his hips aside until his cock pressed on the metal table again. The Assassin’s elbow held him down at the waist, his weight pushing down on Magnus, keeping him still. And then the instrument was shoved into his ass, and Magnus’ brain fucking blanked, a yelp burping out of him in alarm.

“Oh, _fuck._ ” Magnus had not been penetrated in a very long time, maybe not since – his mind wandered – those beautiful abs – _fuck!_ It just kept going. Magnus’ wrists strained against the leather bonds, and his initial squeak became a shuddering groan at the slick metal blades, cooled by the air touching his saliva, slid further into him. He tried to imagine five inches, how long that was, and not resist internally but it felt like a fucking foot.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” he whimpered as the arms finally touched his buttock, the Assassin pinning him there unfeelingly. He said nothing to Magnus, just let him feel the cold inside him for a moment, long and medical, warming to his body heat. Then the Assassin flexed his fingers on the arms and the blades opened, and Magnus’ eyes shot open in shock. “ _Oh god,_ ” came the squeak, and Magnus knew exactly what that thing was for. It was opening him up. And treating him like this – the pierced cock, level with his face, was hard again.

His left hand flexed into a fist in its restraint – his right still could not move without the biting pain ripping down his elbow, and Magnus hissed at it, then gasped involuntarily as the stretch widened. “Oh man, you better have some petroleum jelly or some shit,” he spat quickly, looking down his body at the Assassin, his view of the act blocked by the man’s massive arm pinning him – the muscles curled and beautiful, doping him with lust again. The Assassin looked up from his procedure, as though interrupted at a vital moment, and gazed at Magnus. It was completely within possibility, Magnus reasoned, for a psycho like this to just not use lube, or to – he didn’t want to think – scoop up the slime from the floor and use that, rupture Magnus’ anus, kill him from some horrible ass infection in a sad, terrible basement surrounded by cannibals. That was believable and probably poetic justice for baiting this whole fucking thing. He'd have to turn on the charm. So he grinned, strained, at the emotionless mask as it peered at him.

“C’mon… you gotta have something… it’s more fun,” he pleaded around his smile, flinching only when the blades pulled a little wider. He was feeling the dank basement air on membranes that had never felt the outside atmosphere before. Fucked up. “It _feels_ better… c’mon. I promise I’ll be quiet. Just…”

The Assassin gave a snort at him and pulled back, taking his arm from Magnus’ hip and the instrument from his anus. “ _QUIT YOUR BEGGING,_ ” he snarled through gritted teeth that might have been a smile in the late Cretaceous, “ _DOGS BEG. COWARDS BEG.”_

“Oh,” said Magnus shortly, and then gave a nauseous laugh, feeling his anus resume its former shape. The giggles were bubbling up from his sore throat again, ruining the awful scene. “You think I ain’t that?”

_“I DON’T FUCK DOGS.”_

“Only corpses, huh? Wack.” Magnus looked plaintively down his body at the man as the Assassin tossed the instrument back into the trough. The blood in his nose had finally had a chance to clot, a solitary drop falling thick to the metal under his cheek. The Assassin took him by the ankle again, pushing back his upper leg and towing the lower one towards him. Magnus instantly bent it, letting it be drawn up towards his chest.

“ _WHEN I TELL YOU TO SHUT UP, I MEAN IT.”_ This came as a rumble. It fell oddly on Magnus’ ears, with a tenderness he hadn’t expected. For a moment, he thought – the Assassin’s victims generally did not consent. Generally, they weren’t even breathing by the time the fucking happened, he could only assume. Was it different, to have someone in your hands who gave way beneath them? Even with this violence, Magnus found himself still buzzing, still right here, getting high off the blood loss and asphyxiation. He’d wanted to hurt, the Assassin indulged him. For a moment, he thought maybe they had something. A connection. An understanding. Then the Assassin twisted him roughly onto his front, and his mind blanked with pain.

Magnus howled as his arms were crossed behind his head, his wrists still fixed in place at the top of the table. The Assassin pushed him back onto them, holding his knees over his hands and shoving them up to his chest in front of him, and with every degree his right elbow crooked Magnus felt his joint scream, the tears running involuntarily down his cheeks. The wet dregs of shit caught in his hair trailed over his forearms as the Assassin pushed him up, moving Magnus’ body so that his hips were positioned at an angle to the edge of the table, his tailbone about hanging off and his buttocks held against the Assassin’s powerful hips. 

He released one of Magnus’ ankles to feel around under the table, then the other, leaning over his captive as he did so with Magnus’ legs on either side of him. Magnus found himself clinging to the man, his thighs pressed against hard muscle on either side of his waist. Didn’t know where that came from, didn’t have time to question it for the pain that was stabbing from his elbow, making him cry out – couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help any of it. After just hanging over him, listening to him groan and holding him down with his body, doing something beneath, the Assassin rose again, slapping a slick hand down on the metal and leaving a greasy handprint as he pushed himself up.

“ _SHUT THE FUCK UP!”_ he threatened again, and this time made good on his threats, slapping Magnus brutally across the chops. The blow came down with a smack that rang in Magnus’ ears, but it had the desired effect. He shut up. Looked up at the Assassin with dumb, begging eyes as the man took hold of his knee again, his hand slippery with – and Magnus could feel it on his cheek too, above the pain, familiar, a nothing scent – petroleum jelly. Oh. Oh! He tried to keep his mouth shut, looking up with all the gratitude he could muster before the Assassin bumped him with his hips, nudged him up, and got another yelp for his trouble.

A murderous look settled on him. This wasn’t going to work. They could both tell. Then the Assassin pulled his shirt over his head, the pits and chest dark with his sweat, and balled it in his greasy fist.

“ _OPEN,_ ” he ordered. Magnus opened his mouth. He received the balled shirt, filling his mouth as a gag, and bit down on it with a hum of acceptance, tasting the man’s rancid sweat salty and acrid. But the Assassin wasn’t satisfied, and poked it further into Magnus’ mouth with his thumb, shoving it down in the space around his gums and then, with his thick forefinger, into his throat, only stopping when Magnus’ eyes bugged and he gagged against it, his throat heaving. He didn’t want to _kill_ him, not yet anyway. Magnus managed to cough it back up his throat enough to hold in his mouth, the fabric getting wet with his saliva, and then was quietened when he looked up at the hulk of abs and throbbing pecs above him, glistening with sweat in the harsh white light.

Again the Assassin reached under him, his face blank. Magnus felt the metal ring touch his anus, nudge him, then the push as the Assassin found his angle. It was impossible not to moan. Just trying to figure that out, seeing his bony hips against this man, twice his width, the outline of his own stomach muscles where he’d starved down to nothing. For all his fantasies Magnus had never fucked Nathan, not like that. Ten inches was almost a foot. Where the fuck was that even meant to fit in there. But it was too late for logistics, and he grunted around the shirt as he felt the Assassin’s fat cockhead slip into him, greased with the jelly.

He was thankful. God, he was so thankful. He was alive, for now. He was lubricated. If he got a horrible blood disease, he guessed it didn’t matter – he didn’t have long to live anyway, just until Dethklok arrived. He had these… _beautiful_ muscles, flexing as the Assassin pulled back and thrust deeper into him, sliding the grotesque, monstrous thing into his body with little resistance once Magnus focused his mind and relaxed his loins, let it happen. A killing machine, showing him mercy, holding him securely, deciding he was worth keeping – using him. But that meant he was useful. And his head span as he felt it drag on his rectum and then push in another few inches, feeling endless, and enormous, like it’d fucking distend him. The Assassin patient above him, breathing heavy and holding his legs up, knees hooked over his hands. Simple pleasures. Magnus let himself go limp.

He lay there, bound and clutched in the Assassin’s hands, and let his mind wander. Counting the inches, though they were uncountable – was it five? Was it ten already? No. Uncountable. Felt like the dude was trying to poke it into his stomach, pull back his intestines over it like a pair of tights until he got it in there. The Assassin’s breathing rasped and clipped as he thrust sluggishly, working it in, his eyes fixed on Magnus’ middle. When he did look up there was nothing to see, as Magnus had checked the fuck out a little while ago, letting his head loll on his crossed arms and his eyes glaze over. His cock had bowed over where it stuck up from his crotch, the natural response to intense pain despite his arousal keeping it plump and dark.

But there was something to this. This vision, laid out on the dissection table, one dead eye, one unseeing. The blood on his face and in his matted hair, stained into his beard and smeared on his chest, black grime and rotten gore making one side of his face filthy with slime. Starved and grotesque, the cheekbones, the pallid skin, the bruises breaking out over his skeletal ribs and pooling in his eye socket, his mouth stuffed with a soiled gag. And quiet at last, the pleasure of a still body, clenched tight and hot around his cock. 

The Assassin gave a snort, breaking the silence, and shoved the rest of his length directly into Magnus, rewarded with a muffled grunt and a full-body twitch. _That_ was ten. Magnus could feel the guy’s nuts brush against his tailbone, and he looked down his body again with dizzy curiosity just as the Assassin pulled back, giving a nasty, animal growl and ramming back into him with a slap of bodies and a punch of breath. Magnus watched in horror as he felt it, a fucking blunt stab that drove so far into his scrawny body that it prodded up against his stomach. He had seen it. The dick inside him, poking up against his stomach muscles, shit he’d only ever seen in porn and only in women. 

The guy was literally fucking him in the guts.

Magnus felt briefly like he was going to vomit, and wasn’t sure if it was coming from the dick in his entrails or the fucking concept of that. It passed quickly however, leaving him with just the general sense of illness he always got when being fucked up the ass; it was one of those things, just the way those nerves felt, the same pleasure as taking an enormous shit crossed with the weirdness of being touched in places he couldn’t reach, places he’d never been touched. It was a kind of pleasure in its way, with his head spinning from blood loss and pain and asphyxiation too. You know, a natural high. Got you disconnected. And that was all he wanted to be these days. Disconnected from all this negativity.

The Assassin was gentle, which Magnus had not expected – he rutted slowly, breathing in strained rasps and dripping sweat, taking his time to pleasure himself with Magnus’ limp body. But that feeling of being used was still there, that dreadful humbling, laying there and struggling to breathe around the clotted blood in his nose and the sweat mingling with his saliva from the gag in his mouth, rolling salty down the back of his tongue. It was masturbatory, this kind of fucking. Routine, uncaring. Like he was just a sleeve.

The pace picked up, and Magnus breathed out through his nose with a whistle as the Assassin suddenly dropped down over his body, letting his legs fall to rest, crooked, against his sides. Magnus gurgled as the angle changed within him, stewing his guts in a different direction. As he thrust, the Assassin’s face found the crook of Magnus’ neck, breathing heavy against his skin. His hands wrapped around Magnus’ back, pulling him bare chest to chest, anchoring him to a harder fuck, and Magnus shuddered as he felt the man’s broad tongue lash across his throat, hot and wet, tasting his sweat and searching for the cut he’d made in Magnus’ skin. 

The lick turned into a suck, pulling at his wound, then the suck turned into a nip, pinching hard but so minute compared to any other pain he’d had that Magnus barely even flinched. With his wrists limp and coated in sweat, Magnus found his left hand suddenly free – having pulled out of the bind, his right still crossed behind him, and he immediately buried it in the Assassin’s hair, holding him to him and pushing him away in one grip. There was no sound down here except their labored breathing, the drip of the ceiling, the rattle of the trough of atrocities as it was jostled by the Assassin’s thrusts, and the obscene slap of rutting flesh, short and quick but felt so far into him that Magnus couldn’t even imagine it inside him.

Suddenly, he felt the Assassin pull back, his cock slithering out almost entirely before being run back into him, all ten inches of it, and Magnus was clutched against his chest by those powerful arms, crushed hard against him. The Assassin groaned against his neck, and Magnus felt the man’s orgasm travel down his body – from the cinching of his abdominals, held tight against Magnus’ middle and drenched in sweat, to the twitching of his cock, the pulsing that throbbed deep into his guts. He imagined it and bit down hard on the gag, the heavy pumps of cum emptied into him like he was just a hole and nothing, a convenient thing to use. But it was fucking over. He’d fucked the Assassin. What the fuck.

The huge man slowly dropped him back to the metal table, panting for breath as he lay Magnus down with surprising tenderness and then extracted himself with slow, almost medical precision. They made eye contact as the pull tugged on Magnus’ insides, a reminder for him to relax, let it slither out. Magnus shuddered as it did, messy with sweat and blood and grime, and gazed into the Assassin’s face. It still felt like taking an enormous shit. Kinda indulgent in its way. The space it left felt fucking weird, and as Magnus felt the cum dribble out of him and onto the metal, he dropped his head back in defeat.

The Assassin did not seem bothered much, standing back from him and shaking out his hair, his boot steps sloshing in the water at their feet. “ _SHIRT,”_ he commanded out of nowhere, holding out his hand, and Magnus looked at him helplessly for a moment before realizing. He extracted the shirt from his mouth with some difficulty and handed it over, his tongue feeling furry and dry and his jaw aching from being stuffed for so long. The Assassin took it, made a face at it as it hung from his fingers, and then used it to clean himself up, chucking the ruined rag at Magnus’ panting form once he was done and fastening his leather pants once more.

“But,” gasped Magnus, his chest heaving on the metal. His cock was hard again, just from watching the Assassin’s muscles ripple and feeling the semen drip out of him. The Assassin didn’t even look back at him.

“ _DEAL WITH IT YOURSELF.”_ And with that he just fucking left. Walked away from it, leaving Magnus to unfasten his right wrist and sit up in the lonely white light, the empty basement stinking of gore and cum and sweat. His elbow did not feel okay, but then neither did his ass. Magnus leaned back on his left elbow with some intention to jerk himself off, but his right elbow was so fucked he quickly abandoned that with a huge sigh, and glumly slid off the table, legs shaking and both bare feet smack in the slime.

He had just gathered his sodden clothes from the floor and leaned back against the table again, his left hand around his cock and relishing the opportunity to stoke it in peace, when a revengencer poked his head around the doorway to the stair and interrupted him with a nervous, “Uh, Mr Hammersmith, buddy, dude, sir?” that poked into Magnus’ fantasy like a ten inch cock into his fucking colon.

“Oh, what the fuck!” he snapped back at the man, caught standing alone naked under the light and jerking himself, and he quickly held the clothes in his arms over his crotch defensively. “Don’t knock or anything, huh?”

The revengencer looked around for a door to knock on, found none, and gave Magnus a helpless look. “Um. The Assassin told us to come get you.” Magnus rolled his head in total exhaustion as he saw the other faces appear around the young man, stepping out of nowhere to join him.

“Sure. I’m sure he fucking did. Well, I don’t need _getting_ , so how about you get your prion-riddled ass back up there and go suck a lemon, huh?”

The revengencers just blinked at him. “The Assassin says you need the hose,” hazarded one of them eventually, and Magnus peered at them, still too unsteady to leave the table he was leaning on.

“The what?”

“The hose. This hose.” Magnus watched as one of them crossed on the other side of the room from him, barely lit in the gloom, to a huge water hose coiled on the wall that he hadn’t even noticed in the gloom. The revengencer hefted the end in his hands, turning it thoughtfully as the others crept down the stairs to join him. “Um, for cleaning – this place. We hose it down. Like with the captives.”

It was slowly dawning on Magnus what they meant. “No,” he said, grinning nervously at them. “That ain’t necessary. I’m just fine.”

“Yeah, well, the Assassin said, so.”

Magnus looked into the mouth of the hose. In an instant it was crystal clear to him whose orders they listened to, and he swallowed against his dry throat, leaning back on his left hand. 

“Oh boy,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos most welcome, they make my day.


End file.
